


Dress Blues

by bearonthecouch



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alcohol, Bisexuality, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Fraternization Regulations, Multi, Polyamory, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 20:18:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15736632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearonthecouch/pseuds/bearonthecouch
Summary: “How is it my fault that of the two people at this party I’ve actually had sex with - and would love to have sex with again - the military says I can’t, not with either of them.”





	Dress Blues

“You look very handsome, sir.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. You do, too. I mean, you look… nice.” He flushes a little, wondering how Riza Hawkeye can still manage to make him feel like a stumbling teenager who can’t string a sentence together around a member of the opposite sex.

It doesn’t help that the dress uniform is the one area where the Amestrian Military allows for the femininity of their female soldiers. It’s not that he hasn’t seen Riza in a skirt before. That was in fact her entire wardrobe when he was that stumbling teenager. He’s even seen her in _this_ skirt before, multiple times.

For that matter, he’s seen her in various states of complete undress, which you would think would be a lot more likely to make him blush if he was going to. But no, for whatever reason, he can appreciate Riza Hawkeye completely naked while still feeling more or less in control of the situation, but Riza Hawkeye in dress blues reduces him to a babbling idiot.

“Colonel?” she says, squinting up at him, and brushing his hair out of his eyes. He could swear she sounds like she’s laughing at him, in some subtle way that only he can hear. There is the hint of a smile on her face. “You really should have let someone cut your hair, sir. I wonder if there’s time…”

“You’re not cutting my hair, Riza!” She sighs heavily. He’s not sure if it’s because of his outburst or his use of her first name. “Lieutenant,” he adds, just in case it’s the second one.

She rolls her eyes. “Will you at least let me comb it?”

She already has a comb in her hand, although Roy has no idea where she was hiding it, unless it was slipped into her underarm holster along with her gun. He gives her a slight ‘go ahead’ nod, and tries not to squirm too much. Of course, as soon as she’s finished, he runs his hand through his hair out of nervous habit, completely ruining the effect.

Hawkeye glares at him, but he just puts on what he hopes is an innocent look. “Let’s go,” she insists. “Or we’ll be late.”

The Military Ball is being held in one of Central City’s fanciest hotels, all crystal chandeliers and marble staircases and the top-most of top-shelf liquor. All on the taxpayers’ dime. Let no one say Roy Mustang can’t appreciate a good party, disheveled hair aside.

“Colonel, you really should bring a date to these kinds of functions,” Riza suggests. She sits across from him in the back of the chauffeured car. “People will start to wonder…”

“I have a date.”  
  
“An adjutant does not count as a date, sir.”

“I meant Hughes.”

She kicks him in the shin, hard enough to actually hurt. “Ow,” he moans, and this time she doesn’t bother to hide her laughter.

“You did not mean Hughes,” she insists, between giggles.

Roy glares at her. “How is it my fault that of the two people at this party I’ve actually had sex with - and would love to have sex with again - the military says I can’t, not with either of them.”

“Hughes is married,” Riza points out, conveniently side-stepping his not-at-all-secret admission about her.

“I know. Contrary to popular opinion, that doesn’t make him look any less attractive in dress blues.”

“But he’ll be there with _Gracia_.”

“Gracia knows about me and Maes. I’m fairly certain he recounted our sexual exploits in embarrassing detail when he wrote to her in Ishval. It would certainly explain the way she looks at me when she thinks I don’t notice.”

“But you haven’t… they’re _married_.”

Riza Hawkeye is a firm believer in rules and oaths and promises and ‘death do us part,’ Mustang knows. He believes in other things. But he isn’t lying when he meets her eyes and says, with perfect seriousness, “Don’t worry, no one’s broken any wedding vows.”

No broken wedding vows. No broken fraternization regulations. Just one sexually frustrated Colonel Roy Mustang who is really, _really_ looking forward to the open bar tonight.

The car pulls up to the circular driveway of the hotel, and a valet opens the door. Riza gets out of the car first, alert to any sign of attack because it’s her job to be. Roy thinks it’s highly doubtful anyone’s going to attack him tonight, with the possible exception of several of the Generals’ wives, who don’t seem to care much about _their_ wedding vows if they’ve had enough to drink. But he lets Hawkeye’s sharp gaze sweep the shadows around them before he follows her out of the car and up the steps into the gilded lobby.

He can hear faint notes of music coming from a long way down a thickly carpeted hallway to his left. So that’ll be the ballroom, then. He runs his hand through his hair again and follows Riza. She holds the door open for him, and this time it’s his turn to scan the room, although he’s looking less for threats and more for opportunities. An event like this is a chance to mingle with senior staff, which involves a lot of fake smiles and ass-kissing, but is necessary, because he needs his career trajectory to continue on its rapid upward trend.

There’s a lot to talk about this year: the young Fullmetal Alchemist under his command is obviously the topic on everybody’s mind, but there are people here who are curious about Roy’s own alchemic research, and others who will want to congratulate him for leading East to victory in the recent joint training exercises against Major General Armstrong’s Northern forces for the first time in eight years.

Major General Armstrong won’t be here, because she would never leave Fort Briggs undefended; she wouldn’t even come to East for training except that it isn’t optional. But her second-in-command, Major Miles, is tucked into a corner sipping calmly at a drink, watching the room from behind his ever-present goggles. Which shouldn’t be allowed with a dress uniform, and they’re _inside_ , but Mustang figures most people in Central are intimidated enough by the Northern forces to allow them their quirks.

Roy stops by the bar for a gin and tonic, then heads over in Miles’ direction. “Colonel Mustang,” the man greets him with a nod.

Roy smiles. “It’s nice to see you again, Major.”

Miles shrugs. “This isn’t really my scene, I’ll admit. But someone needs to speak for Northern interests.”

Roy nods. The Military Ball in Central is, for him, the reward for suffering through a week’s worth of meetings with representatives from all of Amestris’ regional headquarters, and the recertification evaluation for State Alchemists, and the start of transfer season, usually as a result of “trades” initiated in the earlier meetings. He is, technically, Lieutenant General Grumman’s substitute here, the same way Miles is Armstrong’s. But Grumman sends him because he actually wants to go. And Miles is just here for duty, as far as Roy can tell.

The man is hard to read, but he smiles as Hawkeye approaches. Roy knows the two of them had been in (mostly) friendly competition all through the joint exercises. He gives Miles another smile and then extricates himself so the two of them can talk about guns or whatever. He sees Hughes and Gracia across the room, dancing slowly near the musicians on their low stage. He finishes his drink and sets the empty glass on a nearby tray, and makes his way over to them.

Maes’ grin is so huge when he catches sight of Roy that it looks like it’s about to swallow his whole face. “You clean up well,” he teases.

“You too,” Roy says quietly. He suddenly feels about ten degrees warmer. It’s not like he could be hands-on with Hughes in front of the top brass even if his best friend _wasn’t_ married, but there is a not-insignificant part of him that just wants to strip Maes out of that well-tailored jacket and get him in a room somewhere.

Instead, he keeps his hands carefully at his sides and says a hopefully not-too-strained hello to Gracia. “How’s Elicia?” he asks, for lack of anything better to say.

“She’s growing up so fast, Roy!” Maes babbles, and he claps him on the shoulder, laughing. “Here, I think I have some pictures…”  
  
“You brought _pictures_? To the State Military Ball.”

“Of course!”

Roy just shakes his head, catching Gracia’s eye and laughing as she does. “You’re completely hopeless, Maes.”

He manages to dodge the pictures with some half-hearted excuse about needing to go and introduce himself to the Fuhrer, who stands overlooking the whole event with a serious expression. Honestly, protocol says that should’ve been his first move, but there are enough people here that it’s possible his lapse could be overlooked. 

He glances back at Hughes and Gracia as he’s halfway across the room. Maes has his hands on her waist and his head bowed close to hers as they sway in time to the music. Roy sighs. He’s never danced with Maes. He’s considered wanting to a few times. Like after his wedding, and almost always during these balls. Maybe Riza’s right. He should bring a date to these things, someone he’s allowed to touch. He feels like he’s about to lose his mind.

She appears at his right elbow, almost as if summoned by his thoughts. She frowns, looking him over. Roy takes a careful breath and tries to think cold-shower thoughts, because he _really wants to_ kiss her, right now. He falls into step behind her and half-listens as she introduces him to the Fuhrer. Roy salutes and doesn’t even know what he says to the leader of the nation, but it must be appropriately appreciative, because the Fuhrer nods with a slight smile and says he hopes Roy enjoys the party.

“You too, sir,” Mustang says, although in truth he can’t really imagine the Fuhrer enjoying anything.

But later in the night, he does see the man dancing with his wife. So who knows?

Roy gets another drink. He talks to some of his old academy buddies, but the conversation doesn’t come easy. He’s at least two ranks above all of them, and they don’t bother to hide their jealousy. Colonel Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, Hero of Ishval, has very little in common with the boy they used to play poker with.

Riza steers him in the direction of some of the other Generals, men who are glad to talk trade with him, ask him his opinions of Amestris’ strategy in the East. Roy is glad to point out that their work in the East is mostly a rebuilding effort, at the moment. It’s nice to be part of a military that can actually be seen helping people. It’s what he got into this for, after all. Raven and Grand exchange glances that make it obvious they think he’s naive, maybe even childish. But his war record speaks for itself. He’s willing to be the might of Amestris, if ordered. They can’t claim otherwise.

He tries to give Riza a drink, but she shakes her head. She won’t drink on duty, not even here. He sighs. He feels like he can’t relax if she doesn’t, even if he has had several drinks and feels more than a little buzzed. More and more of the men and their dates are starting to occupy the dance floor. Roy stands on the edge of it and raises an eyebrow at Riza. She shakes her head again.

“Come on, Riza, please,” he says softly, voice barely audible over the music. “It’s just a dance.”

“With all due respect, sir, I think we both know that it isn’t.”

“Don’t,” he pleads. “Don’t be so formal. Don’t be so…” _mean_ , he thinks. Fuck, he _needs her._ Doesn’t she understand that? He’s so _lonely_. Surrounded by all these people, and he’s lonelier than he has ever been.

He only survived Ishval because of her and Maes. And now, despite their promises to support him, despite their proximity, there are phone calls, and paperwork, and after-work drinks (with Maes, when they’re in the same town) and morning coffee (with Riza, every morning before Grumman’s briefing, quiet but businesslike), but there’s no _touch_. There’s no comfort. He sleeps alone and he wakes up alone and he gets himself off in bed or in the shower but there’s very little pleasure in it.

He misses them, both of them, and it’s like an aching wound.

Riza’s hand brushes his wrist. He looks down at it, feeling a shiver as her fingers lightly pad against his skin. She pulls away as soon as she realizes he’s noticed her. “Colonel,” she says softly. “Why don’t we get you out of here?”

It’s early yet, but he’s put in his required appearance. He nods, slowly.

He follows Riza into a car, still - _still_ \- noticing the way her dress blues cling to her curves, noticing how badly he wants to run his hands over those curves. She pouts slightly, watching him, her brown eyes narrowed and concerned. He reaches out for her, his lips slightly puckered as he tries to brush them over hers. But she turns away, _pushes_ him away.

“Colonel,” she says forcefully. “We. Can’t. You can’t.”

He frowns at her, but just when she’s about to repeat herself, he nods. “I know,” he says, and it comes out harsh and angry. “I know, it’s just… I’m sorry. I _know_.”

“Maybe I should put in for a transfer?” she suggests, hesitantly.  
  
His eyes widen, and his world spins. “What?! No! You _can’t_ , I _need_ you.”

Riza nods slowly, hearing him out. But she’s not entirely done with the idea. She studies him, the way he has to work _so hard_ to prevent himself from giving in to his obvious desire for her. And she would let him, if she could. But. “But if…” she starts.  
  
Roy shakes his head. “I know the regs, Hawkeye. I do. And I’m sorry about right now, it was just… it won’t happen again. Okay? I _swear_.”

“Okay, Roy,” she says, very softly. _Roy_. She hasn’t called him Roy since Ishval, since they slept together, skin to skin, all salt and sweat and heat and guilt. They were each other’s salvation in the depths of hell, him and her and Maes.

Roy leans his head back against the soft leather seat and forces himself to remember where he is and why he’s here. He’s going to become Fuhrer one day, because that too is a promise he made in the depths of hell, _to_ Riza and Maes, and he owes it to them to keep it.

The car drops them off at Central Command. Riza asks him if he wants an escort to the temporary quarters where he’s been staying for the past week, but he says no.

He just needs to clear his head.

He ends up at Madam Christmas’ place, and it is just his fucking luck that he can’t even get laid in a _brothel_ , but his aunt at least keeps the drinks coming. Last night in town, he might as well spend it with family.

He realizes, only after he’s been sitting there for a few hours, that he’s still wearing the dress uniform.


End file.
